Time waits for nobody

I have 10 minutes left to live. I have known this for 30 seconds now, and it has seriously put a dampener on my evening. I had so many plans, not just for tonight, but also for the future. Now, however, I can forget pretty much all the things on my list because there simply isn't time for anything. Well, almost nothing, anyway.

So, it all started about 21 minutes ago now. Damn, I guess this means I have 9 minutes left to live.  But wait, please let me tell my story!? I'm not sure I can do it justice, though, in only 9 minutes. Then again, what possible reason could I have not to try? This IS quite a suspenseful story, if I may say so myself. And heck, I am at the center of the story!

13 minutes ago, well 13 and a half minutes ago now, I had come out of the CT scan that our local ER had wheeled me to at a rate of knots after I came in with chest pains and back pains. I was actually in so much pain I could hardly talk, but I was seen immediately upon laying down on the gurney.

I suppose I was lucky, because they had a cardiologist in the ER when I got there, he was with another patient when the ER physician who examined me shouted for him to come and help. It would seem that this cardiologist sensed the urgency as he turned on his heels and left the other patient without a word. He came scooting over, white coat flapping in his wake. Words were exchanged, I won't bore you with the details, but there had to be quite a lot of mutual respect there because the cardiologist didn't even question the ER doctor, nor did he want to examine me to double check, he just barked out the order to take me straight to the CT scan.

And so it came to be that I was wheeled down the corridor at a decent clip with ceiling lights whizzing past and people scrambling to get out of the way.  Actually quite exhilarating in all the pain and confusion, if I'm honest. The corner to the XRay department was navigated on two wheels, with two wheels rolling helplessly in the air on the other side, and for a breathtaking second I thought we weren't going to make it and I was going to end up on the floor. However, the nurse and the ER doc had done this before and they handled the situation beautifully. I suppose the fact that I am not overly heavy helped, as well.

Now, about 6 minutes or so later,  I'm being wheeled down another corridor and things aren't exactly less speedy, if you catch my drift. I had asked the ER doc what was happening just before this mad dash started out, and he seemed unable to blurt out that my aortic arch had an aneurysm that was enlarged and splitting at the seams. Those were his words, I'm not putting any spin on this. I can’t claim to fully understand the words, but the way he said all that seemed very ominous and the facial expression he is carrying around is one of utmost concern, so I feel uneasy as all get out. As we started down the corridor in the opposite direction to the way we had come before, I asked him what this meant and - while still running - he answered that I had about 10 minutes to live. And, he added rather breathlessly, that was an optimistic estimate. As you can imagine, this did nothing to ease my worry.

So, now that you have this backstory and I have wasted another minute of the small stack that I still have at my disposal, we have arrived  in the OR. I can see people scrambling, some hastily assembling trays of instruments, some draping an operating table and yet others being helped into gowns, masks and gloves. The ER doc, who is breathing quite hard next to the nurse who seems less bothered after the 100 meters dash they both performed, now turns to me again.

"So, here's what's going to happen now, Michaela," he says. I'm impressed he can still remember my name. But I'm guessing they don't find themselves in this kind of situation every day, so perhaps that makes you a bit more prone to remember insignificant details. And now I’m cringing as I realise I have just, in effect, called myself insignificant. But that is something to  analyze and deconstruct at a later date. 

"As I said to you, your aortic arch is about to burst, and if that happens your life will more than likely not be possible to save." I can't help but admire how devoid of bullshit he is. I mean, he is telling me this almost like someone would tell another person about the fact that their bus was late this morning when going to work. Another part of me also realizes that he actually never used the word “burst” before. This is a fact I would have liked to bring up, but somehow it just feels unnecessary at this point.

"So, to make a long story short, we have to try to surgically repair your aorta. That is what they are going to do here. Do you have any questions?" Do I have any questions? Tell me, Mr. ER doc, wouldn’t you? However, I can feel my mouth opening and closing a few times, like a fish who finds himself on dry land, but no question emerges. What CAN I ask? Could you possibly imagine the shock I'm in right now? So, I shake my head.

I now have about 2 minutes left, if my rough calculations are correct and the ER doc has made a decent estimation. I have been moved to the operating table, and all my clothes have been cut off. They are scrubbing my chest rather frantically and somebody is putting some form of needle in my wrist, on the inside. It hurts like the dickens, but I have no voice right now. I am finding myself unable to speak. Don't ask me why, I have no idea. Maybe the shock? Yea, that's probably it. The chaos of the last few minutes has rendered me numb.

The numbness is not to last, however. A searing, tearing pain starts behind my shoulder blade, kind of in the center of my chest almost and guess what? I have found my voice. I am SCREAMING in pain. I feel like the world is coming to an end, I just KNOW this is not going to end well and my vision is becoming narrow, very quickly. There is yelling and frantic hustling all around, someone swears loudly, and I can feel someone grabbing my arm and yanking it to the side. In my peripheral vision I see a syringe in this person's hand and it is quickly connected to the cannula sticking out of my arm. A white liquid is injected, and darkne.....